From the background somebody spoke. “My snow-shoes are gone. He’s stole ’em!”
“Like enough! And that’ll mean Groche won’t stick to the tote road. He’ll strike out ’cross country—Canady way, mebbe.”
Lon pushed to the front. “See here!” said he. “Let me in on this, will you? Guess I’ll toddle along with your two.”
“Eh?” said Mr. Kane in surprise.
Lon’s expression was determined. “Sure’s I’m risin’ two-year old, this is my party, as you might be sayin’. I got a sorter runnin’ account with that critter. And I can tell you this: he wa’n’t aimin’ to singe your hair, Mr. Kane, so much as he was layin’ for me and some other folks. I oughter tackled him last night, but I didn’t; and now I’ve got all the more reason for tacklin’ him good and plenty. And I’m makin’ no brags, but if I lay paws on him, I’ll bring him in, and don’t you forget it! So, if you’ll jest fit me out with snow-shoes and one or two other trinkets, I’ll be a heap obleeged to you.”
The foreman inclined his head. “All right—jest as ye say, Gates. ’Nother pair o’ long legs like yourn won’t do no harm to the hunt. We’ll outfit ye.”
Lon crossed to Sam.
“You see how ’tis,” he said, lowering his voice. “I jest plain got a call for this job. Your father’d say ’twas all right if he was here. But if I take my eye off you for a while, Sam, you’ve got to give me your word you’ll keep out o’ mischief and keep the rest out of it. I guess you can do it—you’ve been toein’ the mark like a major lately.”
Sam’s eyes twinkled. “Like Major Bates, for instance?”
“Yep—seein’ as how he’s the only real, blown-in-the-bottle major I know. And that reminds me: this trip I’ll be a genooine Shylock Holmes.”